


Not as Fragile as I look

by Silvermoonphantom (Daitoshi)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Saw (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Immortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 12:41:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daitoshi/pseuds/Silvermoonphantom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Russia finds his situation more irritating than scary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not as Fragile as I look

“I don’t want to touch such a disgusting thing!”

“What cruel words, for a coward. Stop wasting time, It itches.”

Francis eyed the rusty table and the surgical instruments thereupon with utmost disdain.

“These things probably haven t even been cleaned. Who knows what diseases are in them.”

“You’re the last person to be able to speak about diseases, Frantziya. That odd voice insisted there was a key in my heart. I can certainly feel it.”

Blue eyes shot him a dirty look, and his partner’s face cleared into one of childlike joy.

“Can’t you just get it yourself? I don t want to touch your dirty innards.”

A dangerous smile stretched across the pale face, voice growing darker.

“As if I’d want your ugly hands inside me. If you would rather stick those thieving fingers into an obvious trap, I’d love to see you scream.”

A quick glance was spared to the doorway that possessed a box-like machine around the doorknob area. If one were to peer inside, there was the glint of glass and metal. A person could either reach through to unlock and open the door, or retrieve a key and make use of the keyhole on the machine s side.

“Tch.”

France tossed the pliers at Russia, relishing in the small grunt as cold steel flopped against his bare stomach. How their captors divested the pale man of his shirt and coat without displacing that ugly pink scarf, he d never know. It was probably for the best, though. Who knew what maniac rage the other nation would show if his precious scarf was harmed.

Russia’s grin grew into the psychotic realm, and the other blonde tried not to show his discomfort from the harsh violet gaze pinned on him. With a loud creak followed by a sharp snap, one arm lifted abruptly from the medical table he was strapped to. (Who had tables with manacles built in, anyway? Even the worst insanity wards had leather straps and gauntlets.)  
The man grabbed the pliers and lifted them in examination, pondering over the shiny tool. France yelped as they were flung in his direction, ducking behind the operating table with a curse.

Without preamble, Russia pushed his fingers down over his left pectoral, the skin rippling eerily before parting with an odd squelch. France could hear grinding and a wet slopping sound from his crouched position, peeking over the table in time to see the violet-eyed man deposit a pulsating chunk of muscle onto his own stomach.

A weak “mon deiu” was muttered before the blonde sank back down, no longer interested in how Russia was going about his internal affairs. Fingers continued to root around, unminding of the warm liquid splashing up onto his forearm or sliding down his sides from the still-pulsing heart resting over his belly button. His eyes lit up with glee.  
“Found it!”

He withdrew a small object and placed it on the somewhat-clean side of his chest, grabbing at his heart impatiently.

His over-excited hands knocked into the muscle and shoved it to the side on accident. The organ, already slippery from its previous housing, slid off Russia s belly and bounced off the edge of the table, landing squarely in France s lap. The nation gave a girlish shriek, leaping backwards, only to strike his head on the edge of that same table and fall sideways in a dead faint.

Violet eyes watched the scene with exasperated amusement, taking hold of the wet key and ripping his other arm from the bindings for good measure. He didn t sit upright, lest the blood gathering in his heart cavity spill outward and drench everything. It was easy enough to replace his heart and blood (He was a spirit of the people, after all. His blood didn t mean much to maintain life) but his precious scarf was another matter. He’d hate to explain more bloodstains to his kind older sister. Instead, Russia waited for France to awaken.

And waited..

and waited…

Just as he was contemplating scooping up some of the blood and pouring it on the blonde’s head to awaken him, the French man gave a groan and sat up.

Russia saw him pause for a moment, before muttering something that sounded like “so it wasn’t a dream.”

Russia just gave a childlike giggle, holding out a bloody hand.

France gingerly picked the pulsating organ off his lap, groaning in disgust. The blood had dried partially, and was already sticky on his fingers. His entire outfit was totally ruined. Dropping the heart unceremoniously into the large hand, his own thin fingers started scrubbing together, trying to rid them of the sticky fluid.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen gruesome things during his various wars and revolts, but being literally covered in blood was still quite uncomfortable. Rather like feeling dried juice tug on the skin, after attracting an unholy mass of dust and grime. Just nasty, it was.

Russia tucked his heart back into place, sighing lightly. Another wet sound echoed around the dingy room and his chest sealed back up.

The man didn’t seem to care about the liquid drizzling down his front as he sat upright again, giving only a moment to rub curiously at his bellybutton. (which had been filled with the stuff)

He gave a cheerful grin to his partner in this situation (who looked rather ill) and pounced upon the doorframe, inserting the key and dismantling the machine without a hitch. He carelessly turned the door handle and suddenly jerked erratically, the smell of burnt flesh searing the air.

France was still sitting next to the table, mindfully staying very quiet as the Russian examined his burnt hand (electrocuted, surely) and let loose a terrifying intent to kill. With his bloody hand, it looked like he merely slapped the door.

The red handprint caused hinges to buckle and the steel door to dent inward harshly. A second blow sent the door flying into the wall opposite of a narrow hallway. He made quite a figure, standing in flickering yellow light with only slacks, a pink scarf and huge amounts of blood smeared across pale skin.

Russia walked back toward the table, bending down and violently ripping one of the metal legs from its frame, snapping it again to be rid of the padded end. His purple eyes were wide in anticipation.

“Well, Frantziya? Are you coming or not?”

France nodded quickly, standing up and grabbing his own weapons (a pair of surgical knives) before trotting after the larger man.

Inside an observatory room, red eyes above swirled cheeks flickered in a bewildered frenzy, not entirely sure how things could have spiraled so out of control.

The two nations exited the dilapidated building without much more hassle. A random passerby more than happy to alert authorities when a blood-soaked man wielding an insane grin and a jagged metal pole asked nicely. His blonde companion was too exasperated to even flirt with the stranger, and they each made it home safely (if a bit worn-out from questions asked by fellow nations)


End file.
